The Devil, Self, and all his Swill,
Who knows how deep sits sordid lust;
How near all power lies to will,
Our wills to the damned Unjust.
Ah, yes—thy friends—each wily Dick,
Or under-helmsman to that crew
Who at no faith-breach blush to stick,
So but their grist come safely through;
Who, with the rough youth, Glory, ape apace,
Quite out of mind his Elder’s lease,
And for a brief from fame-fee’d days,
Would wash his hands in bleeding peace.
And he—no neuter he—he whoops so hard,
The brazen, roystering, gingo-sheet,
Who serves his vomit tricked with nard,
Thro’ flattering brag, the bloodfiend’s heat.
Who weeps to think the Lion dupe
To tearing wolves in shepherd’s cowls,
Then to his sore heart lays this stupe—
That there were innings to the howls—
And all for Empire: scape-goat-thing!
Look down, proud pile, at thine own feet!
Do not, thro’ knell, the ages sing
How tainted base, the top-strong seat
Shall, tumbling, empty all their sham,
And blaze this line on Story’s page—
That Fill thro’ Foul may never dam,
Or check the course her Vengers wage.
How Rule unbuilt each day anew,
With tempered glow each brutish fire,
Shall lack of pith to fame the True,
Unlaureled stand before the Sire.
Nay, to unbred ages hand the bill
For bounden due and bitter scan;
The compt and trust he shrank to fill,
To bate the sum of answering Man.
O, John, thy file of friends runs fast and queer!
Be sick awhile with honest doubt!
Best heart still doffs to wholesome Fear:
Revise thy list—leave spongers out!